Safe With Me
by MyVampireBunny
Summary: It all happened so fast. A witch, a prophecy, two brothers, and a boy. Kurt Hummel never thought they'd change his life but, somehow, they've managed to do exactly that.
1. Prologue

**AN: **Well, HERE IT IS! This is the story that I've been working on since...God, somewhere around Christmas time:P

After shifting through the Glee/Supernatural crossovers and finding disappointment, I went and started my own, and now that it's FINALLY finished, I'm posting my baby for all to see (oh wow this is a superduper excellent moment and I just need to stop and take it all in whew okaaay).

I'm disregarding things from both shows to do this, so don't get too upset if you find holes in comparison to actual plots:P

If you're reading this, then I love you. alkdjfl;akj'lakdsjklje

Both Klaine and Destiel will probably find you along the way, though I can't really make any definite promises;)

**Warnings: **Violence and BoyLove

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Prologue**

Kurt watches Puck struggle for a good three minutes before he finally just rolls his eyes and reaches over to unbuckle the other boy's seatbelt. When all he gets is a glare in return, he shrugs and says, "It'll be easier that way." Puck just sighs and continues to tie his shoelaces.

"This better not take long," he grumbles, stretching his legs to get used to the feel of his new sneakers. "I've got a pool to clean and a cougar to tame." He winks suggestively before patting his jacket's inner pocket and hopping from the passenger seat.

"Oh g- You're _disgusting_!" Kurt smooths over a bump in his hair before reaching down to trace his fingers over the object tucked carefully into his sock – just to make sure that it's still there. Opening the door, he takes a few seconds to examine his surroundings before slamming it shut and walking over to meet his companion. "You _really_ need to quit that job."

Puck scoffs. "Sorry, dude, but not everyone has enough money to buy clothes with other people's names on it. I gotta rake in the dead bugs if I wanna rake in the cash." He rubs the pads of his fingers together as they start walking towards the abandoned supermarket, their steps accidentally in sync.

"Who even has their pool _open _this time of year? It's the middle of _winter_!"

"It doesn't make sense to me either, dude, but the money's good and the chick's hot. You won't find me complaining."

Kurt gags a little. "Seriously, Noah, di-sgu-_sting_."

"Coming from the kid who's still a virgin! You don't even know what you're missing!"

"Right, right, I'm missing out on _so_ much!" He elbows his friend in the ribs and skirts out of the way before the action can be returned. "Sorry I plan on waiting until it means something."

"Oh, trust me, it always _means_ something."

"_Ugh_, we are _not_ having this conversation right now."

"Fine, but we're having it later."

Kurt narrows his eyes. "Shut up and grab your gun."

He watches as Puck reaches into his jacket and pulls out a weapon that's been polished to perfection, looking so brand-new that Kurt would almost believe it was if he hadn't seen the same exact one a hundred times. "Ready to kill some witches?"

Kurt grabs the knife from his sock, nodding confidently.

"Let's get this shit _done_."

When they push the doors open, Puck in the lead because he has the gun, they're met by a group of women standing behind a fire. Lying before the flashes of red, orange and blue is the body of what looks to be a teenage boy, not much younger than the two of them.

Puck starts shooting immediately, hitting two of the women but missing the other three. Kurt uses this as a distraction, running to the boy and feeling for a pulse, only to be met with disappointment.

Standing up, he rushes towards the nearest witch, a woman probably in her mid-twenties with hair as red as the flames flickering in the whites of her eyes. She hisses when his knife stabs through her shoulder, but she doesn't fight back.

Confused by this, he cocks his head a little to the side. "They're weak!" he shouts at Puck. "Low-magic! Whatever they were trying to do here must have failed…"

He yanks the blade from the witch's shoulder and kicks her down, swinging his foot against her knee. She falls with a soft gasp but seems to have given up the fight, watching through glassy eyes as he turns to help Puck.

The remaining two witches are standing only a few feet in front of the other boy, smiling as they intertwine their fingers. Kurt takes a fighting stance beside his partner, ready stab at whoever starts muttering a spell first.

"What were you guys doing here?" Puck asks. "Why'd you kill the kid?"

"No one will miss him," one of them replies. "He's from a very, _very_ far away place. Nobody around here will know." Her voice is smooth and warm, like tea and honey, and Kurt can't help but to think of how easily that poor boy must have been lured into their trap.

"Except for us," he growls. "Except for his _parents_."

The other one chuckles. "They didn't_ love_ him, you ignorant little _bastard_." Red lips pulled back into a glossy smile, and Kurt's practically seeing through the kid's eyes. "My sister and I will dispose of his body, anyway. _Properly_, too, so that no one will ever find him."

"What were you _doing _here?" Puck repeats.

"We were _taking_ a sacrifice, but _you_ interrupted."

"It doesn't matter," her 'sister' snarls. "Just _tell _them."

"Tell us what?"

They smile. "About the prophecy."

"What prophecy?" Kurt asks.

"The one about _you_."

"_Me_?"

Puck shakes his head. "Kurt, don't listen to them!"

"Oh, but you _must_," one of them whispers. "We've all heard the prophecy. Our brothers and sisters speak often of what's coming."

"It affects you, as well, Noah Puckerman," the other says.

The witches giggle when Kurt and Puck exchange a nervous glance. Kurt bites down hard on his bottom lip, trying to think smart about this. "Never trust witches. That's what my dad always tells me." He looks back at the witch whose life he took so easily. "Especially not the low-magic ones. Tricksters and what-not."

"You think we're weak," one muses.

"Curious," adds the other.

"Don't you still want to hear the prophecy, though? It _really_ is a good one."

"Oh, I'll think we'll tell them, anyway."

"_Just listen_."

Kurt tightens his grip on his knife and straightens up into a slightly more comfortable position. Puck bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet.

"_Two Great Hunters…"_

"_The ones with the blood of Winchester…"_

"_Are to come to your door…"_

"_Meant to prepare you for the inevitable…"_

"_For your death, Kurt Hummel…"_

"_Because of a boy so cruelly brought into this world…"_

"_By the hands of a monster with the worst of intentions…"_

"_And when the end is near…"_

"_Or when it has fallen upon you all…"_

"_An angel of the Lord will come from a faraway place…"_

"_And he will be the light at the end."_

There is a solid beat of silence in which no one moves. Both sides seem to be waiting, muscles flexed and toes wriggling, for someone to say or do _something_.

When Puck pulls the trigger, Kurt lunges for the shorter woman. The knife goes easily through her chest, tearing through flesh and tissue until he's sure that it punctures her heart, and it's never his favorite part, but knives were always easier for him to use compared to the guns that Puck so valiantly displays.

She wraps long fingers around the base of the blade and smiles almost knowingly, unnervingly. "How funny. You don't _look_ like a hunter."

His eyes go wide with shock before narrowing in anger. The knife sinks deeper and he pulls back sharply. Drops of blood splatter across his chest and neck as the witch falls backwards, fingers curling around nothing but air as her life pools around her.

By now, he's used to death, even the blood.

He wipes at what he can before turning to face Puck.

"Dude, that was _pretty _bad ass."

Despite himself, Kurt throws his head back in laughter. "Yah, well, I'm getting just a little sick of all the bad guys telling me I don't look the part. Being gay doesn't make me any less of a hunter."

"Like they even know what they're talking about."

For a moment, they just stand there. The fire behind them, although dying, warms their backs as they survey the damage. Standing side-by-side, they know they must make quite a sight. The strong, well-muscled football player and the tiny, not-so-well-muscled glee kid. Fighting monsters.

When they think about it, it almost seems unreal.

Suddenly, Puck snorts. "The god damned _Winchesters_."

"Like my dad said, you can't trust witches."

"True that. Crazies were probably just trying to live long enough to work some voodoo or something."

"Wouldn't put it past them. I mean, an _Angel of the Lord_? This is _Ohio_."

Puck sighs and shakes his head, turning for the exit while running a hand over his face. "I'll get the shovels."


	2. Chapter 1

**AN**: Updates will probably happen A LOT faster; it's just been a really busy week:P Went through and made some changes:)

**Disclaimer: **You would know if I owned either of these shows honestly.

**Warnings:**Violence and BoyLove

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter One**

Its a few weeks later when Kurt is jerked from sleep by a series of obnoxious raps against his door. "Kurt!" Finn shouts. "Mom made breakfast and Burt says that if you don't get down here in five minutes he'll take your car away again! For a whole _week_."

Groaning, Kurt buries his head in his pillow, listening to Finn's footsteps as they grow distant down the hallway.

He loves his father, he really does. Without the man, he wouldn't be half the person he is, but Burt Hummel's training schedule was practically _suicide._

He rolls out of bed and lets out a soft hiss as his bones crack in protest.

His hair is a mess and he's still in his pajamas, but he's too tired to pay his appearance much attention. Last night went from a regular Friday night out to a full-paced werewolf hunt. The damned thing was pretty good at avoiding conflict, and it was a good two hours before Puck finally shot the bullet that killed it. When he looks at the clock, he realizes he only got five hours of sleep and curses under his breath.

He shuffles slowly out the door and down the stairs.

"Morning, son," Burt greets, looking up from his newspaper to nod at Kurt. "You look like hell."

"_Morning_, dad," he grumbles. Carole smiles sympathetically before handing him a plate of pancakes.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she practically sings. "Rough night?"

"Werewolves."

Finn's face contorts into a sort of grimace. "I remember that one time with you and Sam at the park last year. Those things are _scary_! Would've killed Sam if you hadn't been there to kick it in the nuts."

Carole rolls her eyes while passing Burt his own plate. She places a hand on his shoulder and plants a warm kiss on his forehead. Kurt watches the exchange with a smile. There's always that little ache that often comes from seeing what he doesn't have, but he's easily able to fill the void with pancakes.

"So, dad, what are we gonna do today?" he asks. He gratefully takes the coffee Carole offers him. "You know, at seven o'clock in the morning."

"Just some target practice. I need to get you on a gun." When Kurt goes to protest, he raises his hand to stop it. "Look, I know knives are your thing, but they're _dangerous_. Getting that close to your enemy is never smart."

Kurt wants to say something, anything, in defense of his precious weapons, but his father _does_ make a solid point. More often than not, he's found himself bearing the scars of face-to-face combat. Even Puck, who threw himself into violent situations without so much as a second thought, has fewer marks than he does.

Thankfully, though, his face has yet to be marred.

Still, he doesn't like guns. For good reason, too.

But he won't bring that up. Not right now.

Sighing, he nods solemnly. "Okay." Everyone stops whatever they're doing to look at him, but he ignores them and keeps on eating. "These are really good pancakes, Carole."

She smiles a little weakly. "O-oh! Thank you, dear."

* * *

"Just focus on the target, Kurt. That's it. Just_ focus_."

Burt watches his son carefully. Already, they've been out here an hour, and the boy hasn't shot a single bullet. Every time he gets a gun in Kurt's hand, he starts to shake and Burt has to take it away. This is the first time anything has gone even somewhat smoothly.

He gets it. He really, truly, _honestly _does, but Kurt's survived so far only on easy jobs and sheer luck. Things won't always be so uncomplicated, and Burt knows this better than anyone.

"Now, _shoot_!"

The gun falls from Kurt's hands. While Burt ducks to grab it, Kurt stumbles back a few steps. "Face it, dad, I can't do it. I've accepted it, so you…you should, too."

When Burt looks up, there are tears in his son's eyes. "Kurt, giving up on this is giving up on being a _hunter_. I know you complain about it sometimes, but everyone can tell just by looking at you how much you love it. It's in your blood. It's a part of you." There's a small smile on Kurt's face. "We'll call it a day for now, but I'm not giving up on you, and I'm not sending you on anymore hunts until I know that you can defend yourself better."

Again, Kurt finds himself wanting to protest, but he can't. Not when his father keeps making so many valid points. He knows that, as a hunter, guns should be easy, but he's _good _with a knife. He's done with them what his father could never have done with a gun.

But now isn't the time.

"Maybe we can get Puck up here tomorrow to help out," Burt suggests. "God know he worries about you, too. Even if he'll never admit it."

Kurt chuckles, finding it hard not to snort in disbelief. "Sure, dad. Whatever makes you happy."

And as he starts walking towards the target to carry it back up to the house, Burt watches his son with a heavy heart.

* * *

Walking up, they talk about simple things. The weather, the werewolf Kurt killed the previous night, and what Carole would be making for lunch. They joke and laugh, easily able to ignore the things that press hard against their minds.

About Kurt's mother and how she died, for example.

Kurt glances quickly at his father, wondering if it's hard on him, too. It's been years, sure, but the pain never really went away. Every time he even glances at the weapon that killed her, revulsion swirls through his gut. Every square inch of his being hates the feel of cool metal sliding past his palm and settling there, like it belongs. To Kurt, guns are not an extension of one's self, but a burden to bear for the choices hunters have made - a reminder that death is inevitable.

_Not that knives are any better..._

Suddenly, Burt stops walking. He sticks his arm out to stop Kurt from walking and nods at their driveway.

"Dad? Who's that?" He looks down at the sleek, black car, noticing the extreme amount of care that probably went into keeping it looking so pretty.

"Don't know." Burt's eyebrows furrow in thought. "Make sure you have your knife ready, just in case." He glances quickly at his son. "Nice car, though."

Kurt rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but he can't suppress the worry niggling at his brain as he bends to pluck the knife from his sock. Strangers are never a good thing, especially when Finn and Carole are alone. Finn's strong, but he won't last long against any of the monsters that like to play with their victims' heads.

His thoughts fly instantly to the witches he and Puck killed a few weeks back before he picks up his pace. It's always possible that they may have accidentally made a few enemies.

They jog the rest of the way, Kurt dropping the target before following quickly behind his father. Burt slowly opens the door. Kurt stands on his toes to see all that he can.

What he sees surprised him more than any witches ever could have.

"Dad, what…"

When Carole sees them, she throws her arms up in greeting. "Boys! You're just in time for lunch. And, look, we have _guests_!"

Kurt's jaw _drops_. The two men standing behind his step-mom are drop-dead _gorgeous._ They put that Taylor Lautner fellow to _shame_.

Which is really saying something.

"And who," Burt asks. "Are you two?"

The taller of the two, the one that actually caught Kurt's eye second, smiles warmly at his dad. "Sam and Dean Winchester. Bobby Singer sent us…"

If Sam says anything else, Kurt doesn't hear it. Because_ what_?

"You said Winchester? As in_ the_ Winchesters?" He doesn't even care that he's openly gaping at the brothers, not when it feels like he's just stumbled upon Wonderland.

The shorter brother nods before exchanging a curious glance with Sam. "Yah, kid, why?"

"I-I…"

He's just a little starstruck, is all," Burt speaks up. "You guys are pretty well-known. Now, you were saying Bobby sent you…"

As they walk away, Kurt turns the knife over in his hand, struggling to breathe evenly. Wildly, he considers calling Puck, but he knows the other boy won't pick up. And even if he did, it's not like he'd listen.

"Kurt?" Finn calls, ducking his head out of the kitchen's entrance. "You coming?"

He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. "Y-yah. Just…give me a minute."

* * *

Dean wishes they'd never come here in the first place. The blonde lady smiles too much, and her son keeps staring. He's trying to send Sam a silent message, but his little brother is too caught up in the charm of it all to pay him any attention.

When Burt Hummel finally walks through the front door, he lets out a long-held puff of air. Now, at least _he_ looks normal.

While Sam introduces them, his eyes land on the boy behind who he assumes is the kid's dad. He's of medium height with light brown hair and has eyes that remind him too much of the sky. When he hears their names, those very same eyes go very, _very_ wide, and Dean can tell he's going through the shock of his life.

It's hard not to smile when the kid – _Kurt_, he remembers – starts stumbling over his words and twirling a knife between his fingers.

Honestly, he didn't think they were _that _popular.

He almost wants to talk to the kid, get to know him a little better, since he's obviously an out-of-the ordinary sort of hunter. But Burt is leading them towards the kitchen and _damn_ if whatever's cooking doesn't smell good.

Besides, this in an in-and-out type of job. Eat, get when they need, and leave.

Or so he thinks.

* * *

The feel of cool water splashing across his forehead and cheeks brings Kurt back to reality.

He needs to say _something_, to ask a question or two.

It's hardly a comfort to have to speak to the Winchesters, but something tells him he needs to do this. If he wants answers, he needs to forget who he's talking to and just _do_ it.

Walking out of the bathroom with his head held high, he takes a deep breath before taking those few necessary steps towards the kitchen.

"Finally!" Finn exclaims. "We almost ate everything without you!"

His only answer is a small smile and a nod.

As soon as he enters the kitchen, his eyes land on the Winchesters. They're huddled around the table, alongside his dad, flipping through some book. They mumble questions at Burt and tap their feet impatiently as they wait for answers.

Naturally, Dean's the first one to catch him staring. His cheeks turn scarlet when the older hunter smiles and motions him closer. "Come help us find this spell, kid. We could use the help."

Kurt doesn't hesitate. "What are you looking for?"

"A spell that can get rid of a _lot_ of ghosts at once," Sam answers. "Bobby didn't have it back at his place."

"Bobby?"

"An old friend," says Burt. "Met him long before you were around."

He nods before running his fingers over the small collection of books they've got left on the table. Across from him, Finn is turning through an old text, and he can barely resist a smile at the sight. Although his step-brother held no interest in being a hunter, it was hard for Kurt not to wish him one. Aside from the fact that they were now family, Finn was one of his closest friends, and he prefers him over Noah Puckerman _any_ day.

Kurt picks a familiar book from the pile and starts skimming. In less than three minutes, he finds what they're looking for. "Aha! Right here!" He passes the book over and takes pride in their sighs of relief.

"How'd you know it'd be in there?" Burt asks.

Shrugging, Kurt says, "When I was just learning how to hunt, I thought reading some of your collection would come in handy."

Dean slaps him on the back and _wow_ is he attractive.

"Over achiever," Finn grumbles.

"Oh, poor you," Kurt mocks with a pout.

Sam clears his throat a little. "Well, no mean to be rude…"

"But we should probably leave." Dean finishes.

"Nonsense!" Carole suddenly shrieks, scurrying over from her place at the counter. "You two just ate!"

"So? What does that mean?"

"It _means _that you're not going anywhere until your food's settled."

The look on Dean's face is priceless. "Look, lady…"

Burt chuckles. "There's no way to stop her, guys. Might as well sit down and relax while you still have the chance."

Rolling his eyes, Dean stomps away towards the living room. Behind him, Sam smiles and shakes his head before going to follow him.

Kurt waits a few moments, swaying a little nervously, before finally deciding to go after them.

Sam sees him first. "Kurt, right?"

"Yah…"

"Your mom told us a lot about you. You seem like a pretty great hunter."

"Step-mom, actually. And thank you. But, uhm…I have a question. You'll probably think it's weird but it's actually important so…"

"Just go for it, kid," Dean grumbles a little impatiently.

"Do you know an angel? An 'Angel of the Lord'?" He hates how bluntly he asks the question, like someone who doesn't know how to keep his crazy locked tight. This is hardly the impression he was hoping to make on the _Winchesters_, of all people. "I'm not crazy, I swear…"

Dean stands up, suddenly stiff-as-a-board and glaring straight through him. "I don't know what game you're playing…"

"Dean!" Sam interrupts. "He says it's important."

"What if he's working with the Leviathans, huh? We can't trust anyone who asks about Cas like that!"

"He's not talking about Cas, Dean."

"Who else could it be, huh? It's _always_ about Cas."

Sam looks to Kurt, whose eyes are wide with fear and confusion. "Kurt, why did you ask?"

Kurt debates lying, throwing it off like a joke that he honestly didn't think would strike a nerve. But where would that get him? "Th-there was a prophecy. The witches…"

"_Witches_!" Dean snaps, throwing his hands up and shaking his head angrily.

"We were _hunting_ them!"

"And who's 'we'?"

"Dean," Sam scolds.

"Noah and I," Kurt answers, straightening up a little. "He's…my partner, I guess. Not in the way you're probably thinking!" he quickly adds. "Just…we hunt together, and we were tracking down this group of witches…"

He then goes on to recite the prophecy, unaware that he'd even remembered it until the words start tumbling from his mouth. His hands shake when it's done, and he the way the Winchesters look at him when it's all out doesn't help at all. They seem to be exchanging words with their eyes, but Kurt doesn't even care to figure out what they're saying. He can tell just by looking at the two that they have some sort of unbreakable bond, one riddled with secret codes that he knows he'll never get the chance to crack.

Sam's the first to speak, eyebrows furrowed a little. "Look, this is…_weird._ But the prophecies witches give _can_ be true."

Kurt shakes his head. "No, that – "

"Trust us," Dean mutters. Suddenly, he seems subdued, and Kurt regrets ever having brought this up in the first place.

"We're staying in a motel just an hour or so away," Sam says. "Your dad has our cell numbers. Call us if you figure anything out about the boy from the prophecy. Could be dangerous."

"We mean it. Prophecies are tricky business."

"This isn't happening," Kurt whispers. "This has to be a joke."

"It might be." Dean looks up from the floor and locks eyes with Kurt. "But it's probably not."

* * *

On the way to the motel, Dean ignores Sam for the sake of his own thoughts.

His body is still thrumming with the irrational anger that came from hearing that Hummel kid talk about angels. Even the ghost hunt they'd just been on did little to unwind him.

Sam wants to talk about it, of course, but Dean won't let it fly. He doesn't want to think about Castiel, let alone speak the angel's name out loud.

All he wants is to get as far away from Lima, Ohio as fast as humanly possible.

And now he can't even do _that_.


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: **It gets better, I swear:P

**Disclaimer: **Shows belong to Fox, CW, and the people responsible for their existence - not to me.

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter Two**

His feet pound hard against the pavement as he sprints down the darkened alleyway. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, it's clear that his captors are falling behind. One-by-one, they fade further and further into the darkness.

Still, he has a good bit left to go if he wants to escape. He ignores the way his muscles scream in protest and pushes himself just _that_ much further.

There's a frustrated howl of annoyance somewhere far behind him.

When he makes it to a large, chain-link fence, he ignores the curious on-lookers and latches onto it. A few people scream but, for the most part, he's left alone. He considers asking for their help, for one of them to call the police or even just to shout for help, but something tells him it won't be that easy.

Whatever's running after him can't_ possibly_ be human. If the crazy speed and super-distance stone throwing are any indication.

He lands on the other side with a groan.

Across the street, a small diner's sight repeatedly flashes "open." As if in recognition, his stomach growls hungrily.

He'd smile if he weren't feeling so miserable and panicky.

He casts the few people around him one last glance, a little desperate for their help. But, for all he knows, the people chasing after him won't stop after a threat from the police. Maybe they'll be too good to even get _caught_.

He's watched enough crime shows to know just how terribly this whole thing could turn.

Grinding his teeth, he shakes his head and starts towards the diner.

_I can't jump to any drastic conclusions. I just need a little time to clear my head, that's all._

His first trip is to the bathroom, where he rinses his face with warm water and attempts to smooth the curls atop his head that sprung free from the gel. Huffing with frustration, he realizes that it's a lost cause and dips his hands back under the steamy spray.

The face he sees in the mirror is still the same, of course, but he doesn't _feel_ the same. His eyes, his nose, his mouth – he's still Blaine Anderson. Son of Jack and Elaine Anderson, student at Dalton Academy for boys.

But these things don't seem completely _true _anymore.

After everything that's happened tonight, he won't go back to Dalton. He'd be too easily found by whoever was looking for him (_if they're even looking for me,_ he reminds himself). And his parents, who were away on separate business trips, wouldn't learn of him being gone for days.

_Maybe it's better this way. I have enough money to stay stable for a little while. I'll just stay in a hotel or something._

Breathing deep, he nods at his reflection before wiping at the tears he hadn't even realized he was crying. He swipes a few sheets of paper towel, dries his hands and face, and steps out to fill his empty stomach.

* * *

The waiter who serves him is, _thankfully_, only interested in what he wants to eat. Blaine doesn't think he can handle small talk, even the polite kind. Not when there's a knot in his throat and a tightness in his chest that even coffee can't soothe.

Although he's not much of a meat-eater, he orders a cheeseburger off the menu and scarfs it down greedily, hardly taking his time.

He just sits there for a few minutes afterwards, nervously tearing his napkin to shreds and biting his tongue until the metallic tang of blood spoils his thirst completely. He keeps checking over his shoulder, unsure of whether or not the people from the alley would be gutsy enough to risk looking for him in such a public place.

_Maybe I'm just overreacting. Maybe all I have to do is pretend like this whole thing never happened._

He rubs a hand over his face, wondering for a moment what he must look like to other people – tired, frustrated, run-down – before deciding it's probably time to leave.

When he goes to grab his wallet, he finds himself reaching deep into empty pockets. His heart starts pounding hard against his rib cage, _ba-bumpba-bumpba-bump_, and an almost suffocating sense of dread bears down upon him, practically nailing him to the booth.

Along with his wallet, his cellphone and iPod are also missing.

They were with him when the chase first started.

Of course, he can always leave them behind, but he doesn't want his phone or wallet ending up in the wrong hands.

He almost smacks his head against the table. Too much frustration and heartache for a boy like him to handle.

He might as well just let them catch him.

Trying to formulate a plan ends up stressing him out even more, so he takes to playing with the salt shaker. The waiter keeps looking at him from behind the counter, counting out his tips again and again while waiting impatiently for Blaine to leave. Rather than looking back, he starts rolling the balls of salt between his fingers.

He starts to sweat.

_What else can I do?_

When a nice old couple shuffles through the door, the boy watching him has no choice but to follow. Lucky for Blaine, they choose to sit on the complete opposite end, forcing the waiter to turn his back while he takes their drink orders.

He swallows hard.

Everyone around him is either falling asleep or too engrossed in their own conversations to notice as he slips from his seat, stepping quickly and quietly towards the exit.

Sneaking out without paying, though heavy on his conscience, goes a lot easier than he'd expected.

As soon as he's out of the there, he presses himself up against the wall and inhales sharply, cooling his system with the chilled air._ Just relax. You're okay, nobody saw_.

If he wants to stay safe, though, he has to get as far from here as possible. _Now._

One last breath and he's on the move, his sole focus on getting back his lost items.

The street he crosses is quiet, void of cars but scattered with the occasional bystander. His fingers tap noiselessly at his sides as he heads for the alley he only just escaped from.

For a few seconds, he kind of just stands there, hoping, helplessly, that what he lost will magically appear before him.

When they don't, he makes sure no one's watching before climbing up the same way he did earlier. In the process, his sweater snags and tears. He curses under his breath and drops back to the ground, brushing the dirt from his pants.

It doesn't take long.

Some sort of crash sounds in the distance.

Before he can turn to run, the woman reaches out and wraps long, claw-like fingers around his throat. He doesn't know what scares him most: the fact that she's inhumanly strong, or that her eyes are_ black_.

Seemingly empty, dark films cover what were once probably very pretty eyes.

"Blaine Anderson," she whispers, almost in awe. Her smile turns his stomach sour. "Oh, you've been _naughty_. Running from the witches like that. Like you had a _choice_ in the matter."

When he opens his mouth to speak – to beg for his life, mostly – she throws her head back in laughter. The sound rips through the night like the slash of a knife through paper.

"Please, kitten; spare that pretty tongue of yours. It won't do you _any_ good."

She squeezes tighter, but he has to try. "D-don't…"

"Oh, Blaine, do you even know who you are? _What_ you are?" She cocks her head to the side, and even he has to admit that she's kind of beautiful. "I bet you don't. Mommy and daddy were probably pretty clueless." She licks her lips and shifts her eyes a little. "Now, honey, why don't you come home with me? I'll take _good_ care of you."

His body is frozen in fear even as he starts to cry.

_Witches?_ And what was _she_?

She runs a finger down the side of his cheek, and it's all he can do not to scream. "You feel it, don't you? The _power_. Does it make you angry? Scared? _Happy_, even?"

"Wha-t are you_ talking_ about?" he chokes out.

She presses harder still.

"There's so much you don't know. You're so _innocent_!" Her eyes trace the contours of his body, and he's never felt so dirty all his life. "But enough talk, we gotta scurry."

* * *

A few days later, Kurt is watching the news over a bowl of cereal. He's trying to enjoy the last few minutes before leaving for school when the program flashes to the face of a boy that looks to be about his age.

"…_missing, now, for four straight days. If you hear or see anything about this boy – again, Blaine Anderson – please call the following number…"_

Kurt feels sick. All of a sudden, and for no reason at all, his stomach starts twisting into a series of tight, uncomfortable knots.

"Blaine Anderson," he whispers, rolling the name across his tongue. "Blaine…"

Suddenly, something clicks.

He whips his phone out and quickly scrolls to the _Winchester_ contact.

It takes a few rings but, eventually, Sam's voice bleeds through. "Hello?"

"S-Sam?" he stutters. His hands are shaking. "It's Kurt."

"Kurt? Uh…" There's some shuffling on Sam's side of the line. "Everything okay? What's wrong?"

"Blaine Anderson. It…it's _him_."

"Wait, what? What do you mean?"

"He's the boy from the…" He swallows hard, clinging to the hem of his sweater like it's the last bit of reality left on the whole planet. "From the prophecy."

"How…"

"I just know, okay? I know I sound crazy, but I can _feel_ it, Sam. It's_ him_."

There are a few moments of silence. Kurt starts to lose faith. The seconds tick by, stretching into forever with every soft beat. "Are you sure?"

Relief pours through his system. "_Yes_. Y-yes, it's him."

The conversation goes for a few more minutes, mostly consistent of Sam grumbling things to Dean. Kurt tries to shake a final plan from the younger Winchester, but the man seems honestly clueless about the whole situation (_When? Oh, uh…I-I don't know, sometime soon. Dean's really grumpy._).

It's absolutely _infuriating_, but he eventually gets Sam to confirm his arrival in a day or two.

Although he's still a little nervous, Kurt ends the call and turns back to the television. Tossing a quick glance at the time, he sees that he's still got ten minutes before he needs to leave and starts flipping through the local stations, looking for another one that might shed a little more light on this Blaine Anderson kid.

He passes back and forth between three of them, anxiously checking the time and stirring the last few pieces of cereal around in the bowl, before he finally settles on a man sitting somberly at his desk, shuffling through his papers and furrowing his eyebrows a bit.

"…_And, as I'm sure you've already heard, a local boy by the name of Blaine Anderson has very recently gone missing. Four days ago, the high school Junior left the Dalton Academy campus, somewhere around eight p.m., to purchase something at a nearby market. Friends say that…"_

"_Kurt_! Come on, we gotta go! I wanna see Rachel for a little bit before class starts!" Finn ducks his head in, staring eagerly at his step-brother. "Let's_ go_!"

"Just…give me a minute, okay?"

The program flashes to the face of another young boy with dark skin and sad eyes, red rimmed from crying. _"…said he'd be back. He's so responsible, I just…I don't get it…"_

"_Kuuuuurt_!"

"Can't you drive yourself?"

"My car's in the shop, remember? What's so interesting about this, anyway? He's just some stupid kid…"

"He's only a year younger than us, Finn, now _hush_!"

He turns back to the screen, leaning a little closer as the boy's friend is cut off and the camera is focused back on the newscaster.

"…_So far, the authorities have no leads as to why Blaine Anderson has gone missing. His family refuses to be interviewed, and his friends have no memory of seeing him anywhere other than the campus itself. If you have any information, please…"_

He prattles off another number, and Kurt wonders if anyone will actually call it before he's caught off guard by the boy's face consuming the screen.

Unprepared, he jerks back in surprise, even gasps a little.

_Hazel eyes, sparkling teeth, smoothed back curls, a smile that could kill…_

The television blinks back to black.

"_Finn_! Why did you – "

His step-brother raises his hands in surrender, smiling a bit as the remote drops to the floor. "Sorry, man, but we really gotta go."

Kurt opens his mouth to protest, but gives up when he realizes that the story's probably over by now, anyway. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he gets up and starts towards the kitchen to wash out his bowl, ignoring Finn's mewls of protest. _Kurt but Kurt come on I wanna see Rachel she's the love of my life man come on __**come on**__._

He glances at the time on the microwave, sees that they still have five minutes, and starts running the hot water.

As it warms up, he looks out the window and sighs quietly. Beneath the spray, his hands are still shaking. He closes his eyes and inhales, filling his lungs with the solidity of the air around him.

_Blaine Anderson. Just who are you?_

* * *

Blaine opens his eyes to dim light. He rolls over with a groan, only to come to the startling realization that _this isn't his bed._

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

The person he sees isn't the woman from before, but a sharp-dressed man with tired eyes. He smiles almost warmly from where he stands, a safe distance from Blaine. "You slept for quite some time. We were starting to grow worried. The demon who found you doesn't quite understand self-control."

_Demon? _"W-where am I?" Discouraged by the cowardly quiver in his voice, he pulls his knees up to his chest and looks away, willing himself not to cry. "Why am I...why am I _here_?"

"Where are you? Somewhere_ safe_. Somewhere where nobody can harm you until this all blows over. _Why?_ Well, it's not my place to tell you. You'll find out soon, though."

For a moment, Blaine debates not responding. None of that was very helpful, if only ten times creepier than the situation itself already was. Instead, he looks around at the room he's in. Pale yellow walls, no windows, no lights other than a small push-light hanging over his head.

He's lying on a ratty old mattress covered in brown splotches and sloppily re-stitched holes. If the floor didn't look worse, he'd prefer sitting there.

He looks back up at the man, wondering why he was being so nice and not threatening his life or that of his family's. "A-and you? Who are you?"

The man rubs his jaw and sighs a little. Blaine tries to gauge what he's feeling, but the bastard knows how to use his poker face. "The name's Liam, but that's not what you mean, is it?"

Heart racing and pulse roaring in his ears, Blaine shakes his head.

"Well, I'm a witch. Not a very manly title, I guess, but _wizard_ and _warlock_ are too medieval for my tastes." He smiles a bit, and it turns Blaine's stomach.

"Please, just…"

"Notice how you aren't chained to that bed, Blaine?" His fingers twitch a bit, like he's getting frustrated. "I won't do that to you. But the _others_? You won't be so lucky."

Desperation curls up inside of him, hot and wild, and he wonders briefly if this is what it feels like to be hunted. Cornered, trapped, with nowhere to run to and with no help to be given.

"_Please_," he whimpers. "What's _happening_?"

Liam steps closer. "You were created for a greater purpose. The others won't kill you, but they're jealous. Demons, especially." He kneels down, so close that Blaine can smell his toothpaste. "You just need to stay strong."

_This has to be a dream. This isn't happening. I wasn't just kidnapped by __**demons**__ or __**witches**__…_

"You're oblivious, Mr. Anderson, but you're not _stupid_. Just don't let these people be the death of you."


	4. Chapter 3

**AN: **Things have been SO BUYS LATELY OHMYGOSH.

This next week is going to be especially hectic, what with finals and projects to turn in before school lets out, so I can't give any promises as far as the next update (although I am sosososoSOSOSOSO excited to post it because I absolutely LOVE IT UGH things finally start to get good:P) If you have any questions/comments, I'll probably only be able to get to them through tumblr, so feel free to visit (llaamaz(dot)tumblr(dot)com)!:D

**Disclaimer: **If I told you I owned either SPN or Glee, would you believe me?

**Warnings: **for this chapter none really

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter Three**

Two days later, Burt is opening the door with a slight frown souring his features. Last he checked, they weren't expecting anyone.

"Sam? Dean? You boys forget somethin'?"

Sam opens his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by Kurt as he pops up behind his father, seeming a bit flustered. "Dad I…"

"Have some explaining to do? Yah, thought so." He sighs. "Come on in, boys. Carole's just about got dinner on the table."

* * *

"Wait, wait, _wait_," Burt sighs. "This is just too ridiculous. What would a bunch of witches want with _my _son?"

"Technically, nothing. They just gave him the prophecy." Sam looks across the table at Kurt, who's holding Carole's hand and staring at the tabletop like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

"They probably heard it somewhere," Dean adds. "Witches can't actually_ receive_ prophecies, last I knew." He, too, looks to Kurt.

Burt rubs at his face with a disbelieving cough. All he ever wanted was his son's safety. That's all he_ ever_ wanted. And now, according to some witches, the boy has a _death sentence_ stamped across his forehead. "We have to get him out of this. There has to be a way…"

"Doubtful," Dean scoffs. Both Kurt and Sam shoot him a dirty look, but the older hunter ignores them completely. "Sure, we can shoot at what's coming, but that doesn't mean – "

"You don't know that," Kurt interjects smoothly. At his side, Finn winces. "I've read about prophecies. They _can _be changed!" His voice is pitched a bit in desperation, like it's finally starting to sink in and it's _scaring_ him. "There have been cases…"

"Look, kid…"

"Dean, _stop_," Sam growls. He looks to the shaken family before them, racking his brain for a way to make this easier, if not just a bit more understandable. "We need to come up with a plan. Something – _anything_ – to change what's supposed to happen." His eyes trail to Kurt. "Like staying away from this Blaine kid."

"No!" Kurt snaps, suddenly so angry that his face is flushed red and his free hand is digging into the wood of the table. "There's no way to even know if it's _him_. His disappearance is sketchy, and I just thought maybe it could use some looking into. I just…I had a _feeling_ about him, but that could mean anything. Maybe he just needs to be saved."

Then why did you call us?" Dean practically demands.

"Because I'm_ scared_, okay? I'm scared, and you're the _Winchesters_, and I just thought…" He trails off with a quiet sob. Burt and Carole look to each other, desperate for a way to help their son. "I just don't want to end up like my mother. I don't want to die because of what I love."

Moments of tense silence follow. Carole pulls away from her step-son with a guarded expression. "How about I make you boys some coffee? Sound like it's gonna be a long night."

Kurt leans with his head on Finn's shoulder, who seems torn between comforting his brother and making the situation make sense in his head.

Dean shakes his head. "I need a break."

He makes for the living room while his brother and the Hummel-Hudsons argue over what to do with their son. The couch takes his weight comfortably, yanking a sigh from his lips as the pent-up frustration practically leaks from his pores.

"Why were you being such an ass?"

He doesn't need to look up to know its Kurt. Voices like his were specific to the person. "Why did you _fake_ cry in front of your parents?"

"You first." The kid crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the older hunter.

"I'm just _tired_, alright? Odd side jobs just weren't in the cards, and_ now_ look where I am." He runs a hand over his face and scowls at the young hunter. "Your turn."

"I wasn't lying when I said I was scared, and it's not like what I said wasn't true. The tears, too. I don't particularly want to _die._ You're the Winchesters. The hope was that you could help me get away from this prophecy."

"It's not that easy."

"But it can be. All we have to do is change something, right? Help me do that and you can go back to whatever cards you having floating around in that deck of yours."

"Easy. Stay away from the Blaine kid."

"Again, I don't know for sure that it's him, and I'm not letting his disappearance just slide past. I'm still a hunter; it's what I do."

"Sam and I will take care of it."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it's my responsibility."

Dean rolls his eyes and rubs at his temples. "How is it that you guys even _do _this?"

"Do what, exactly?"

"Live a normal life – while being a hunter at the same time. How is that even _possible_?"

Kurt shrugs. "My dad doesn't hunt anymore – quit when I came around. Mom, too. When I was ten, I found some of his their old research. Long-story-short, I gave him hell until he decided to train me. I cover my tracks, and as far as I know, I don't have any enemies."

"You sound pretty confident."

"I'm good at what I do."

Maybe, Dean thinks, he's starting to like this kid. "How old are you, again?"

"I'll be eighteen in March."

"What about college? You can't hunt and commit to that at the same time."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"Doubtful."

"Well, either way, we haven't had any problems so far."

"That doesn't mean things will always go so smoothly."

"I'm a big boy, I can handle the consequences."

When Dean actually thinks about it, Kurt probably makes a pretty worthy hunter. But he doesn't want to talk about the life he never had anymore, so he quickly changes the subject. "So, this Blaine kid…"

"What about him?"

"At least let Sam and I help."

The young hunter bounces on his toes in consideration. "You don't have to. Puck can come with me."

"We'll get more done with three people. Four if this Puck kid feels like tagging along."

Lips quirking sideways in an almost smile, Kurt nods. "Fine, I guess you're right. You're still gonna help with the prophecy, right?"

"Right. Now, let's get this bitch."

* * *

So, okay, Kurt's a good actor. Always has been.

Not that his tears weren't genuine (because it always hurt to think of his mother, no matter what the circumstances), but maybe he was playing them – just a _bit_.

The truth is, he _needs _the Winchesters. Legendary for stopping the Apocalypse and infamous for starting it in the first place, they're the best of the best, and now they're_ here_.

One of them is even sitting in the passenger seat of his _car_.

"Take a left up at this stop sign," Sam says. "We should be there soon."

Currently, they're driving around the outermost edges of Westerville, looking for Blaine Anderson's house in order to ask his parents some questions. Sam is sitting beside him with Puck in the back seat, grumbling complaints in-between admiring the way the rich keep their houses looking so fancy.

"Why do we have to wear these ridiculous suits again? He asks (for at least the tenth time that day).

"We're pretending to be cops, remember?" Sam responds. He smiles a bit, and Kurt has to look away before it blinds him. Even though Dean is, in his opinion, the more attractive of the two, the younger Winchester has some pretty spectacular qualities. His smile is one of them.

"And why does Kurt get out of it?"

Kurt scoffs. "Do you honestly think I look old enough to be a cop? People still say I have extremely nice skin for a _fifteen-year-old_."

Sam chuckles a bit, covering his mouth to cover the sound but to no avail. "No offense, but I basically thought the same thing until Burt told me."

"None taken. I know I don't really look the part."

They pull up in front of one of the snazziest houses Kurt has ever seen. Even the driveway is immaculate, decorated by carefully trimmed shrubs and dusted by a few late-season flowers. If the Andersons were modest people, Kurt would be surprised, because they sure seemed to have no qualms about flaunting their wealth for the world to see.

Puck unbuckles his seatbelt and pokes his head between Kurt and Sam, jaw slack with obvious envy. "Holy_ shit_! This house kicks ass!"

Sam nods in agreement, seeming equally as enraptured by the glamour of the place. "You can say that again."

* * *

After Sam rings the doorbell, he casts Noah – _Puck_, he remembers to call him – a wary glance. The teen reminds him too much of his own brother, which may or may not be a good thing. If he can't sympathize, it's possible that the Andersons will grow angry and throw them out, regardless of the fake identities they flash. If he sympathizes _too_ much, there's a chance they'll be caught as imposters.

If he's his regular, thick-headed, testosterone-fueled self, then they're flat out screwed.

A short, sniffling woman answers the door. She looks them up-and-down, admiring the FBI badges with a hint of shock before nodding solemnly. "Come on in. My husband isn't home, but I know the routine well enough to answer all the questions. Would you like some tea?"

"That sounds great, Mrs. Anderson, thank you," Sam says, nudging Puck into the house.

They follow her inside and walk behind her towards the kitchen. "You can sit if you'd like," she says, motioning to the small table and three chairs positioned around it. "I'll just put some water on."

Although a bit awkwardly, they each pull out a chair and sit. When Puck goes to speak, the pajama-clad mother beats him to it, using the same broken-hearted monotone that Sam has heard too many times before.

It's the voice of a person who's given up.

"My husband and I have answered so many of the same questions. How about I just tell you the whole story, hm? If I miss anything, you can ask and I'll fill in the blanks, but I'm too tired to give you much else."

Puck looks to Sam before nodding. "Sounds great, ma'am."

She continues to face away from them, her body language portraying hher as a warm woman with a cold belligerence towards the world since her son's disappearance. "He was a miracle, you know. The doctors couldn't believe that I was pregnant. They ran so many tests. He was an impossibility, but there he was. A Miracle. Jack – that's my husband, as I'm sure you already know – and I worked our asses off to keep him save." Her voice grows just the slightest bit sour.

"We sent him to Dalton, the safest school in the state, number five in the whole country. The teachers were strict, but he had fun there. He's a good boy…"

Suddenly, she turns to face them, fingers curled around the counter's edge as if her very life depends on it. "I'm sorry boys, but I forgot to ask your names. My head's just…not in the right place, I guess." Sincere regret weighs her words, but Sam knows it has more to do with her son than with forgetting their names.

"I'm Calvin James and this is my partner, Andrew Wetherbee," he returns.

Puck nods before saying, with extremely genuine kindness, "Don't worry about forgetting to ask. You'd be surprised by how often it happens, actually."

"Yes, well," she sniffs. "Blaine's a good boy. He's popular, has too many friends to count. He was so safe there, so _happy._ And for the first time in a long, long time, I _knew_ he was _safe."_

Upon seeing their confusion, she nods and adds, "My son is gay. Before Dalton, kids were always picking on him. No boy his age should have had so many bruises…But Dalton _changed_ that for him. And then, one night, he goes out for a snack and doesn't come back…"

Wiping at her tears, she spins back around to handle the tea. "He's only seventeen, still a Junior. His friends say the same thing, that he was last seen outside of some diner a mile or two away from the campus. Don't remember the name of the place." She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Have I missed anything?"

With two steaming mugs of tea held in either hand, she comes over but avoids eye-contact. After placing them on the table, she wraps her arms around herself and waits.

Puck speaks up first. "So this school, Dalton, just lets its students run off campus? Even for a quick trip to the store, it doesn't sound so safe."

She nods, answering quickly enough to suggest that she'd been anticipating the question. "Whoever wants to leave has to check in at the office – fill out some papers and grab a student pass to bring with them. Because he's a junior, he didn't have to bring anyone with him."

He seems to want to say a bit more, but chastising the school's safety precautions won't help anything, so he drops it.

"Is Blaine in any clubs?" Sam asks. "Maybe around people who aren't his friends but that he has to get along with, anyway?"

"Well, not exactly. He's in the school's glee club, but he's friends with everyone in there! Just a couple months ago, he brought them all over for a little party. They won some competition…"

"And no one seemed upset with him?"

"No. No, my son wouldn't have been able to intentionally upset anyone."

* * *

Dean leaves the alley with an agitated sigh, tucking his fake badge back in his jacket pocket. There are only a few cops checking the area, but it's still taped off. He pushes through the unlocked gate, nods at a few nervous pedestrians, and heads for the diner across the street.

Although it's the last place Blaine was seen, it's surprisingly empty of any feds. He takes this as a good sign; all he wants is to eat his lunch in peace.

The waiter who comes to take his order eyes him warily. "Cop?"

"Not your problem," Dean grunts. "Just here for the food." He practically barks his order at the poor kid, but he's too tired to care more than just a little.

The whole "investigating the area" thing had proven pointless. Starting all the way back at whatever fancy boarding school the kid had attended, all he'd managed to find were swarms of frustrated policemen and absolutely_ zero_ evidence. Obviously, Blaine hadn't just run away. His tracks were too easily covered.

Dean's pretty sure that they're dealing with some sort of supernatural kidnapping, which is not at _all_ how he'd planned on spending his time in Ohio.

In fact, he wants to get as far away from this damn state as fast and as far as physically possible.

"Your order, sir." The waiter from before – whose nametag reads _Will _– places Dean's drink and plate before him on the table, smiling genuinely.

It's now that Dean realizes it's just the two of them…_alone_. His eyes dart quickly around the room, only to come to the same conclusion that his brain has already drawn.

It's too late to run.

He slams his hands down on the table, sending his drink toppling over the edge, where it shatters across the kid's sneakers. He doesn't move – just keeps on smiling.

"_Fuck_."

The kid leans forward, resting his weight against the table. "Dean Winchester?"

"I've got a gun, you know."

"They want me to tell you something. Something important."

"Who's _we_?" Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out his pistol while mentally planning a means of escape. If he has to, he'll jump out the god damned _window_.

Suddenly, and much too fast for any normal human, the scrawny teen is in Dean's face, pinning his shoulder to the booth and shaking the gun out of the hunter's hand.

"They're coming, Dean. Those shiny black souls." His voice is that of a thousand whispers, and, if he's being honest with himself, it's scaring the shit out of him. It's disturbing, like a parasite burrowing through his bones. "You can try, but you can't actually _change_ anything. Kurt Hummel will die for the cause." His lips quirk a bit, but the smile doesn't falter. "His will be an honorable death. We will not forget."

A twitch.

Black eyes.

The kid has a freakin'_ demon _locked up inside of him. Maybe more than one, if the voices are any indication. Dean struggles, but the grip against his shoulders is too strong.

"As for the Anderson boy, I'll tell you where to find him. Save him. Let him be happy. But I assure you, Dean Winchester, that rescuing him, or even staying _away_ from him, will change nothing." He digs his nails into Dean's shoulders, smiling when the hunter can't hide his flinch. "He's not the key, Dean. He's not the problem. He knows his place."

Then, the demon spits out some address that Dean is quick to memorize. This is some freaky shit, sure, but it's the only lead they've got.

As soon as poor Will's body slumps against the table, landing almost comically in a pile of french-fries, Dean pushes him away, throws some crumpled dollar bills on the table, and heads straight for the exit.

"God damned Ohio."


	5. Chapter 4

**AN: **As excited as I was to post this, it probably isn't as good as it could have been:P Reviews make this lady a happy camper!

**Disclaimer: **Why am I even still putting this here obviously neither shows are mine

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter Four**

The Impala pulls into the Hummel-Hudson's driveway an hour after Kurt, Sam, and Puck return. They're all sitting in the living room with the rest of Kurt's family when Dean bursts through the front door.

"Save whatever you have to say," he rushes. "I know where the kid is. Sam, Kurt, Puckerman, let's go."

"Wait, Dean…" Burt starts, but the hunter cuts him off with a raised hand and a frustrated sigh.

"I'll explain it all when we get back. Now, let's _go_."

Kurt, spurred by the thought of getting to Blaine, jumps from his seat. Sam and Puck are quick to follow. They simultaneously pat their clothes, double checking that all of their weapons are still in secure order.

"_Please_ stay safe," Carole begs, squeezing her husband's hand. "All of you."

"Don't worry," Puck responds, flashing a quick smile. "We're all too bad ass to let anything touch us."

* * *

There's an awful lot of yelling on the way over.

In which Dean wants to get the job done, Kurt and Sam want to know what happened, and Puck just wants the radio turned on.

Kurt leans forward until his face is between the two brothers. Dean shakes his head, but the younger hunter ignores it. "Was it witches? Did they tell you where he'd be? I mean, who else could have known?" He pauses for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. "_Demons_?"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Dean huffs. "Just be quiet. We're almost there."

"Seriously, Dean," Sam cuts in. "Who told you?"

"The Pope, okay? The Pope told me."

Puck yawns. "Dude, just tell them. If Captain Tall, Taller and Tallest is anything like Kurt, here, then he'll never shut up."

The older hunter grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "_Fine_. It was a demon." He says it very simply. "Some demon that took over the whole eighty pounds of some acne-faced wonder serving me at that diner Blaine was last seen at." Beside him, Sam stiffens in his seat, eyes hardening. "Happy?"

Falling back into his seat, Kurt groans. "So this is probably a trap, right? I've read enough about demons to know they like bend the truth." He swallows and looks out the window. "What were you _thinking_?"

"Is all you do _read_? Seriously, kid, you need to get out more."

"_Dean_!"

"No offense, Kurt, but I'm almost twice your age. I've been hunting since I was a toddler, so shut your damn pie hole and just follow my lead, alright?"

There's silence for a few moments before Sam decides to talk through it. "He exaggerated a little. I mean, he wasn't a_ toddler_…"

"Shut it, Sam."

"Right."

* * *

When Dean pulls in front of the abandoned farmhouse, the paranoia that's been bubbling in Kurt's stomach since the moment they slipped into the Impala is hitting him full force. Although he's never had to deal with them personally, he's read and heard enough about demons to know just how deadly they can be – cunning and quick and witty (all three things that make Kurt incredibly nervous).

And even though Dean is one of the best, Kurt can't help but think that his judgment is a little off this time around.

Especially when there's a supposed death sentence hanging over his head.

Even Sam shoots his brother nervous looks, but Kurt tries to comfort himself by the fact that, if either of them had thought he was in any _real _danger, they wouldn't have brought him along.

Dean turns in his seat to face the other three people in the car. "Weapons ready. I don't know what we're dealing with, but if the bitch back at the diner is any indication, we have our hands full." His eyes linger a moment on Kurt and Puck. "Have each other's backs. Nobody's dying on my watch."

* * *

The demon that chains Blaine to the wall is anything but nice. She's new to him, more savage than the woman back in the alley and taller than the man from before.

As she drags him out of the bedroom he previously inhabited, he finds that his muscles are too weak to fight back. It's like he's been drugged, but he hasn't eaten or drank anything in hours.

"Don't fight it, _darling_," she sings. "You're useless against us demons." Similar to the first woman, her voice is smooth and, in a sick sense, seductive.

And then, with the compassion of a rock, she shackles him to the wall in some hallway and pulls a knife from her back pocket. Obviously well taken-care-of, the blade glitters dizzyingly in the window light. He has to look away, unable to actually shield his face.

Instinct takes over as the threat looms, and he tries to break away to do_ something_, but his limps still feel as if they've been shocked into paralysis.

Golden locks of curly hair whipping over her shoulder, she throws her head back in laughter, and a small part in Blaine's mind wants to call her _beautiful, charming, intoxicating_. For a split second, he feels remorse for any who have been in the same position, captivated by her poisons.

"You're a funny little toy." She cocks her head to side and draws her eyes up the length of him, finding both comfort and enjoyment from the quick thrum of his pulse. "How cruel of them to make you so powerful. I almost feel bad for you. Everything's about to die and you have no idea…"

His insides are screaming with questions, but his mouth can't move to form the words. _Why? Why me?_

When the blade touches his skin, it hurts worse than he's expecting. It _burns_. He's forced to watch as his own skin _bubbles_ beneath the metal.

Tears roll down his cheeks as whatever's binding him finally breaks enough to let him scream in agony.

* * *

Things move fast.

As soon as Dean burst through the door, they're facing a wall of monsters. Some smile like the crazies they are; others avoid eye-contact and frown at the floorboards.

Bullets fly.

Kurt weaves through bodies, knife in hand as he avoids anything with black eyes. He knows better than to think that he can stop a demon with nothing but a worn-out blade and some dumb luck.

After three good and proper stabbings (ones that are surprisingly easy, he can't help but think), the four of them are surprised to find that they can't move. Kurt lets out a gasp of disbelief when his arm refuses to move, followed by his fingers and legs. The witch he was seconds from stabbing takes a step back and smiles cockily.

"Ain't so hot now, huh? _Pretty boy_." She smiles lazily, grinning like a cat whose cornered its prey and wants a few moments just to play with it.

As hard as it is, he manages to ignore her comment, looking out from the corner of his eye to see that he's not the only one who can't move his own body. The only thing he seems to be able to move other than his eyes is his mouth, proven when he curses under his breath. Their limbs are held in stiff positions as whatever stops them pumps cold through their veins.

"Witches," Dean growls. "Fuck it all!"

The monsters regroup and allow a short, professional-looking man to part through. Weaving between the frozen bodies, he frowns as he moves. "You killed some good witches. We really could have used them."

"Cut the crap and fight us like a real man," Puck hisses. "I've got better things I could be doing."

The man looks at Puck before laughing quietly, mockingly. "Smart, aren't you?" His feet carry him to Kurt, who he steps in front of with a pained sigh. Their eyes meet. He smiles. "It won't change anything, you know. You can feel it, can't you? In your blood? You may not know what's happening, but you know how it will end, don't you, little one?"

If Kurt could, he'd punch this bastard hard enough to break his nose. "All I _know _is that I'm going to _kill_ you."

Amused by this, the man just smiles. "Don't you question it, Mr. Hummel?" It's hard not to be unsettled by the fact that some strange man knows his name, but Kurt doesn't let it show. "How strongly you want to protect some boy you've never even met? Does that not set off any alarms in that pretty little head of yours?"

"Where's Blaine? Where is he, you son of a – "

He stops as the soft murmur of conversation dies around him, washing him in the kind of silence that thrums with tension. As if touched by a cool breeze, the creatures shiver, a few of them even hissing at the ceiling.

Another monster parts through, this one a tall woman with long locks of blonde hair. Her eyes flash black as she steps before Sam, looking him up and down. "You want the boy? Take him. He's of no use to us."

Eyes widening and jaw falling a little slack, the man reaches out to grab the demon's arm. "Think rationally about this! We can't just – "

"Hands off, Liam. I run this show, not you, and I _know_ what I'm doing."

Cold anger flashes past the brilliant green of the man's eyes. His grip tightens on her arm. "This has nothing to do with us. You run _nothing_. Our job is to protect this boy."

She shrugs. "You're the one who said it wouldn't change anything."

"The chances are slim, but we can't just _take_ them!"

"Don't care," she drawls, still smiling lazily. "Now, let's get out of here." Her eyes shift to Kurt. "He won't take too long to find. Just watch out for the blood. I hear it stains clothes."

There's a snap and a small, crackly sort of explosion. Wind rushes through the room and, suddenly unfrozen, the four of them lift their arms to cover their faces from the burn of it. They cough and choke on small particles of dirt before wiping at their watering eyes, nodding at each other, and splitting off to look for the boy.

"Where the hell did they go?" Puck shouts as he and Sam work to kick open an empty bedroom door.

"Witches," Sam pants. "Must have used their magic to move them all somewhere."

Puck shakes his head at the bare room. "This is some crazy Syfy bullcrap."

"Think you'd be used to it by now."

"Yah, well…"

Kurt rounds the corner before Dean.

He guesses he could feel it – in his blood and down to his bones. A driving force that would probably be the death of him.

In a matter of seconds, the world is shifting beneath his feet.

A moment of pure, shivering silence.

"Blaine…"

It's a moment in time that he'll never be able to describe but will always remember. Like everything else is nonexistent and it's just him and this beautiful, _broken_ boy.

When their eyes meet, its a hundred white flashes and the color of blood. Blaine jerks in his shackles while Kurt falls to his knees, designer jeans stained red with the other boy's blood. "Y-you…"

Dean is shouting something in the background, but all he knows is this _feeling_.

A mix of desperation, pain, and something so terribly beautiful that he doesn't understand. "What-what is…this?" he pants.

"Witches."

It's Blaine's voice and, even though it's weak, it sends shots of white hot pain through Kurt's skull. "Don't…you can't talk," he wheezes. He leans forward to balance himself, dragging his fingers through hot blood.

It burns.

"Damnit, Kurt!" This time, it's Puck. He presses his hands against Kurt's back. "Snap out of it!"

But he doesn't.

Instead, he falls back into his partner's arms as the world around him fades from white to black.

* * *

Dean uses a file to get through the cuffs around Blaine's wrists while Sam starts wrapping up the many wounds that mar his body. Behind them, Puck curses under his breath while he struggles to wake his fallen comrade.

"How's he holding up?" Dean bites a little too sharply.

Puck shakes his head. "Can't tell."

"Any of that blood actually his?"

"No, don't think so."

Shaking his head slowly, Dean removes one of the metal claps before moving quickly to the other one. "Take care of him, Sammy. I got the kid's wounds."

Blaine looks up at Sam while the younger Winchester shakes his head. "Dean, he needs more…"

"If the witches knocked Kurt out…"

Sam sighs shakily. "He'll need the help, right."

Blaine looks back to Dean, taking in sharp features and an anger that unsettles him. "Sorry," he mumbles. His whole body is aching from exhaustion, and talking doesn't make it any easier to stay awake. "The witch said he wasn't…" He stops to wince in pain as the final brace is removed. "Wasn't gonna let me go easy. He put a spell up. Sorry…"

"Stop talking." Dean moves to dab at a wound swiped across his bare chest. "You've lost too much blood."

"Again, s-sorry…"

"Shut up, kid."

To Blaine, everything is blurry. The man leaning over him is split six different times. Properly, he's only aware of the pain and the curious itch that tickles his chest.

Dean sighs. "Alright, we need to get you out of here. Lucky for you, Kurt's step-mom has a way with healing. You'll be fine. We'll get you back to your parents in no time."

Panic rises in his gut at the thought, but he's too tired to fight it. He goes willingly with the stranger lifting him into strong arms.

* * *

"…surprising for so little power. Really, I was shocked."

Kurt wakes to the gentle hum of his step-mother's voice. His eyes open to dim light and the whispered tones of a hushed conversation.

Burt gets to him first. "Thank god you're okay!"

"D-dad? What…?"

His father helps him up slowly. "You blacked out. Something about witches wanting to keep that kid 'safe'."

Looking around him, he realizes that he's sitting on the couch in his living room, dressed in a pair of old McKinley sweatpants and one of Finn's football t-shirts. He almost expects to find himself soaked through with blood, but it seems that someone, probably Carole, has cleaned all traces of the crimson from his skin. His head pounds, almost definitely a side effect of whatever the_ hell_ went down at that farmhouse.

"How long have I been out?"

"Just a few hours," Burt answers, nodding solemnly. He pulls his son into a tight hug. "You did good, kid."

For a few moments, he misses the body sitting awkwardly at the edge of the other couch, watching him timidly. When he finally does, his jaw falls slack while his eyes trace over unkempt curls, purple bruises, and bloody gauze. "Y-you're okay," Kurt whispers in awe. Back at the farmhouse, he was sure that Blaine had been minutes from imminent death.

The other boy looks at the floor and smiles. "Mrs. Hummel's pretty good at what she does."

Carole smiles, although Kurt can tell that she's a little wary. About what, he doesn't know, but it stirs fear in his gut. "Please, sweetheart," she says. "Call me Carole."

"Of course…Carole."

Standing side-by-side, the Winchesters exchange a carefully guarded glance. In turn, Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face. Pain flashes across Blaine's fair features. Burt, Carole, and Finn all avoid eye-contact with anyone but the walls.

"What did I miss?"

Dean jumps on the questions, evident anger seeping through his reply as he scares Kurt with the quickness of it. "The kid doesn't want to go back to his parents. He wants to stay _missing_!"

"You don't_ understand_!" Blaine practically whines. His voice is pitched with frustration, and Kurt gets the feeling that this isn't the first time they've fought about this. "If I go back, they'll be in danger! My family – "

"So it's better they think you're dead?"

Blaine's eyes widen a little. "How is it not? _Please_, you have to understand…"

Sam steps in front of his brother. "Now isn't the time to be fighting over this. Blaine, you've gotta be exhausted."

"He can stay here," Carole offers. There's a question in her eyes, like maybe she doesn't really trust the boy, but she doesn't retract her suggestion. "Kurt, do you think you're feeling well enough to grab him some blankets? I'll go get some pillows, and Finn can grab him a pair of his old pajamas. Burt, just come with me…"

Looking to Dean, Kurt can tell that the previous argument is far from over. A thousand questions zip through his brain, but he shoves them all aside for the sake of showing Blaine some kindness.

As he walks away, shuffling slowly as he gets his legs used to moving again, he hears Burt ask the brothers what motel they'll be staying at, and he finds some relief in the knowing that they won't be staying the night. Blaine doesn't need Dean's negative attitude poking through his week mental state. He needs warm blankets and a good night's sleep – maybe a glass of water.

Light blankets seeming to be the only kind they own, Kurt grabs three of them before taking a detour through the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it half-way.

The same unease that nearly wrecked him back at the farmhouse forces his fingers to shake around the base of the cup, but he takes a deep breath to settle them.

_Pull it together, Kurt._

_But Blaine…something just seems so _off_ about him…_

No, instead of letting his weakness get the better of him, he walks out to the living room.

The events of the night replay through his mind, quick and surprisingly effortless. Something about everything that's happened so far, even the relay of the prophecy, seems too easy. Like the universe is just _trying_ to push them into some sort of trap.

Blaine is lying back on the couch, eyes trained on the ceiling and giving Kurt the perfect opportunity just to _look_.

The boy is short, but well-muscled. The pajama pants he's wearing are rolled up at the bottom, an obvious enough sign that Finn got to him first. His hair is short, black, and curly-damp from the shower Kurt assumes he took earlier.

And as Kurt starts to step closer, something tight coils and aches in his chest. "Blaine?"

He's gorgeous. Absolutely one of the most beautiful people Kurt has ever seen.

When the other boy sits up and rushes to grab the blankets from his arms, he's staring straight into hazel eyes that are so impossibly bright…

"Kurt?"

Blaine's voice cuts through the haze settling over his thoughts. He shakes his head. "Yah, here, uhm…"

"You brought me water?" Lips tilted into a curiously shy smile, Kurt can't stop staring. "Thank you, Kurt, really."

_Oh, this __**so**__ isn't fair._ "Of course."

There's an almost comfortable moment of silence as Blaine sets the blankets down on the couch, lingering a moment before spinning around to face Kurt with a fierce sort of apology in his eyes. His cheeks are rosy as he talks to Kurt but looks at the carpet. "I-I'm so sorry, Kurt, I – "

"None of this is your fault, Blaine." He stops to look into watery eyes, wondering vaguely when the world decided to screw him over by placing this completely untouchable boy directly in the line of everything he sees. "You…you don't have anything to be sorry for."

Again, their eyes meet.

"Have a good night, Blaine."

It's not what he wants to say. There are questions and fears and sympathies, but Blaine looks all kinds of exhausted, and he doesn't need Kurt keeping him from the rest he so clearly needs.

With one last smile and a quick nod, Kurt turns on his heel, desperate for a sleep long enough to alleviate the drumming against his skull.

"You, too, Kurt."


	6. Chapter 5

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter Five**

Blaine doesn't sleep that night.

Strings of words and stills of moments long-passed haunt his thoughts as he tosses and turns beneath thin blankets, body covered in sweat despite the chill in the air.

Their words still swirl endlessly through his head – those whispered worries from another person's mouth. The same worries that are now his own.

He wasn't meant to hear them; they spoke in quiet voices behind closed doors. But the two brothers spoke with voices like sandpaper, making it nearly impossible not to hear the working of a panicked conversation.

It was killing him, the need to know what they were saying. So, sneaking on sore muscles, he rolled from the couch and tip-toed slowly to press his ear up against the door they were speaking behind. He was supposed to be asleep, blacked out in the living room while the boy with the pretty face slept a few feet across from him.

The same face that spurred him to go to that door, sick of the feeling seeing it made him feel. Not that it was bad, just…bothersome.

Staring helplessly at the stranger that saved him while butterflies clawed at his gut was _not_ an acceptable plan. Besides, the excited anger building through the walls was making him nervous, waking paranoia inside of him that he wasn't used to.

He _needed_ to know.

"…_too much blood. He shouldn't be alive." _ The soft hum of the woman who'd stuffed his wounds with things that were supposed to help but that stung like hell.

"_So, what, he's not __**human**__?"_ The short man with kind eyes and a blue baseball cap.

"…_this! We'll…parents and get him out of our god damned…"_ He strained to hear as he identified the voice as that of the slightly more rugged of the two brothers. Fear pulsed against his skin, but he ignored it for the sake of listening.

"…_his decision. You gotta see where he's coming from. He just wants to keep his family safe. The people he __**loves**__, Dean." _ The other brother.

Again, the motherly voice of the woman who nursed his wounds. _"He's welcome to stay here, right, Burt?"_

Silence. The sort that is still but that presses _heavy, heavy, heavy_ against his shoulders. Palms marked by the crescent moons of his fingernails, he squeezed his hands into tight fists of anticipation. Like that was what he'd been waiting for ever since he fell into these strangers' hands. Just to hear the word 'yes' fall from the lips of a man whose face he could hardly remember.

_Please._

_Please._

"_Sure, of course."_

There were other words, then. Words that would make him worry and eat at his brain with their poisonous implications.

"…_shouldn't be alive…"_

"…_something's off…"_

His heels supported his weight as he leant against them, knees brushing across the carpet.

Everything about him was the same.

Human as can be. Father's eyes and mother's hair.

But maybe…maybe not.

Maybe that day all those years ago…

_No._

Of course he's human. Of _course_. Skin and bones and a beating heart and a soul.

Deciding that he's had enough, he stood up and headed back to the living room, careful to avoid looking at the sleeping boy across from him.

Too much.

It was all too much.

And now he's here. With nothing but his creeping thoughts and the dark ceiling to ponder over. Fear, cruel and unforgiving, brushing hard against his stomach.

_Not human. What if you're not human? Not human. Not human._

And then _Kurt_. The boy with the dazzling smile and the piercing blue eyes. The boy that didn't ask question and that, instead, brought him some kindness – kindness that he hadn't even deserved. A boy that he doesn't know but _wants_ to know. It's like an infection that seeps through his bones, relentless the second he gets a good look at the beautiful boy.

_Talk to him, Anderson. Start a conversation. Make him laugh._

But all he'd managed to get out was an apology.

And it sucks.

Everything. All of this.

He just wants it to be a dream.

He just wants to wake up.

* * *

Dreams void of anything that he can actually remember, Kurt turns through his sheets with a few sleepy blinks and a quiet yawn.

_11:05 AM_.

Eleven o'clock in the morning and he's only just _now_ waking up. For a moment, it's blissful. Sweet warmth that seeps through his clothes and into his skin. Tiredly, he stretches his arms over his head and buries his fingers in the soft folds of his blankets.

And then the panic sinks in.

The last time he slept in this late on a Sunday, his mother was still alive. Burt Hummel made it his life mission to keep his son up and active when other boys his age were not.

It's when he starts to roll out of bed that he recalls the probable reason for being allowed to sleep so late.

Colors bleed and spin and shake, shifting the aspects of his room to nothing but a blurry smudge – the witch's magic still being in his system. "Damn."

He stumbles back to edge of his bed, landing on it with a huff as the vertigo takes over.

Thankfully, though, it fades quickly, leaving him with nothing but a slight headache. He looks to his window and smiles at the flakes that fall quietly from the sky.

_Snow. Maybe I can get everybody outside today…_

But then it hits him.

_Blaine._

_He's…_

Suddenly, he's scrambling to get off his bed. A whole other kind of panic – one that he's not wholly used to – steals through his veins as he desperately attempts to fix his flat hair. Although he's in desperate need of a shower, he doesn't look that bad. In fact, maybe Blaine will like…

He pinches the thought, slathers on a light layer of moisturizer, and grabs a sweater off the back of his computer chair.

What he _doesn't _expect to find are the Winchesters, standing at the bottom step and whispering with harsh hand gestures.

"Morning, boys," he calls, smiling curiously while Dean sighs angrily. "Everything alright?"

Green eyes alight with frustration, Dean grunts out a "just peachy."

The younger Winchester has the decency to at least smile in turn. "Everything's fine, Kurt. What about you? You had everyone pretty worried last night."

"Fine, just a little dizzy. I'm _starving_, though – could eat a horse."

"Well, uhm, I'm pretty sure Carole saved some left-overs from breakfast."

Awkward. Smile-worthy, giggle-worthy _awkward_. Kurt brushes past them with a few amused chuckles. Still his cheeks are rosy. They're still the _Winchesters_. Legends built by great hunts and muscle and an intimidation that cut their kindness to shreds. Everything about them is what Kurt wants to be.

Not to mention the fact that they're both drop-dead gorgeous.

"Well then," he sighs, shaking his head. "I'll just be…_going_ then."

Sam nods at him, but Dean refuses to make eye-contact.

Seeing Finn talking gently to Blaine over half-scraped plates and cooling coffee is terribly surreal.

"…tried football back at Dalton, but it wasn't my thing." Blaine's voice is sweet and cool, pitched only slightly by exhaustion.

Finn nods in understanding while shoveling another pile of scrambled egg into his mouth. "Any other sports?"

Kurt walks in then, hungry stomach getting the best of him. "Morning."

Again, strange. While Finn waves and grumbles something incoherently, Blaine murmurs a soft "morning" in return. Despite their willingness to have him here, he seems to be stuck on the fact that he doesn't belong. A stranger with lots of baggage.

But Kurt's not about to let him dwell on that. Not when the world probably looks like it's falling to pieces right before his very eyes. "So, you were saying something about sports…?" Briefly, as he plucks a strip of bacon from the remnants of a greasy pile, he wonders what Blaine must be _thinking_. Stolen away by monsters that he most likely hadn't even believed in; taken randomly from the life he surely knew better than the back of his hand. "Were you a jock? You look the part." There's a teasing not to his voice.

Cheeks burning red, Blaine ducks his head and starts to trace the rim of his mug with the point of his finger. "Wasn't very good at sports, really. Glee club was more my thing."

"No way!" Finn exclaims excitedly. "Kurt and me are in a glee club, too! What school did you say you were from? Dalton, right? Kurt, did we ever compete against them?"

Kurt cocks his head to the side as he shifts through his last three years of glee club; they never made it very far during competitions due to a serious lack of dance ability and an even worse lack of devotion that some of their key players seemed to possess. There were schools for the deaf, blind, and small groups of elderly men and women who sang with the throaty croaks of their age. Better ones, too, who put the New Directions to shame with their flashy costumes and well-choreographed backflips. Last year had been the closest they'd come, but it was all put to rest when Rachel came down with an awful case of laryngitis. It's here that Kurt recalls the blazer-clad young men who sang like angels.

He nods. "Yah, actually, I think we did. They had this lead singer…"

"Uhm, yah, that was…that, was me." Blaine worries over his bottom lip as he twirls a fork between his fingers.

"What grade were you in?" Finn asks disbelievingly. "_Freshman_?"

He smiles and shrugs shyly. "Sophomore, actually. I don't really look my age."

"You can say _that _again."

"Don't be rude, Finn," Kurt scolds. Snatches of song loop through his brain as he tries to remember the voice of the boy that ne now remembers sparked goose bumps across his skin when he sang. "I remember you were very good. Blew us right out of the water."

An embarrassed, but proud, grin crawls across Blaine's features. "Well, uh, thanks…I wish I could remember you guys…" His eyebrows furrow as he tries to force the memories back to the surface.

Not for the first time, Kurt silently questions this kid's survival. Why were witches and demons holding him captive, and why had the man back at the farmhouse insisted that it was their job to _protect_ him? A knot coils tight in his gut.

Finn smiles. "Maybe we could all sing together some time!"

Kurt rolls his eyes, but Blaine seems to take the offer into serious consideration. "Yah, maybe."

"So, Blaine," Kurt starts, tapping his fingers against the tabletop as he looks the boy over. "I guess you'll be needing some clothes, huh? Finn's old pajamas are doing absolutely _nothing_ for you."

Blaine's cheeks stain scarlet. When he swipes his tongue innocently across his bottom lip, Kurt is surprised to find his eyes following the action. He spins around to face the window before anyone can see_ his_ blush.

"I-I guess I do, yah," Blaine answers.

For at least a minute, the only sound is Finn's eating and breathing noisily through his nose. He figures his brother can handle it well enough and leaves them to their own devices.

Blaine takes a deep breath.

It seems so permanent – this whole _living with strangers_ thing. _Is this the rest of my life? Will I never be able to go home?_

He knows it's stupid, unbelievable, even. But everything's that's happened to him in the past twenty-four hours was thought to be unbelievable until the moment it _was_. Nothing _can't_ happen, anymore. It's like the world is spinning the other way, throwing everything off-balance.

The only thing that keeps him from losing his head is Kurt. Solid, real, _believable_.

His voice brings him back from the depths of his own thoughts. "Well, I'll go see what I can rustle up. You just…stay with Finn."

* * *

Blaine likes Finn.

Although not necessarily the brightest, he's charismatic and easy-going. He doesn't seem to care much about Blaine being there, and when they talk it's like catching up with an old friend. Easy, almost natural.

But when Kurt comes in, something changes.

It's small and hard to notice, but Blaine can feel it. In the air, under his skin.

It's clear, then, that he doesn't belong. That he's a stranger in another family's home.

_God_ is he attractive, though. Lucky he barely glances in Blaine's direction or he'd be caught with wide eyes and an unhinged jaw. Of course, it passes quickly. Now's not the time to drool over boys, no matter how tempting.

Immediately after breakfast, Kurt drags Blaine to the downstairs bathroom with a pile of clothes slung over his shoulder and arm. "You're muscly like Finn but _way _too short for his clothes. Lucky for you, I wasn't always this tall." He smiles and passes Blaine the pile. "Wear what you want and save the rest for later."

Before anything more can be said, the door is closed and Kurt is calling "Just come back to the kitchen when you're done!"

For a few moments, Blaine just stands there and blinks confusedly at the door.

Until the dam breaks.

Because everything is falling apart, tearing, shredding, ripping at the seams. Sobs are torn raggedly from his chest and he falls to his knees and digs his nails hard into the door, stifling the sound behind his free hand. Dalton, the Warblers, his friends. His _family_. All torn _so_ easily from his hands. Like he was never really meant to keep them, anyway. It's all he can do not to scream out in frustration.

Demons and witches – both monsters that weren't supposed to be real. Cruel, dark things that crept under beds in stories and movies meant to scare children, not to _hunt_ him. And now…

He crawls on his knees until he's bowed over the toilet, hands gripping the porcelain desperately as his stomach flushes itself clean. Tears stream down his cheeks as he pathetically longs for his mother, his father, _Cooper_. Any one of them would know what to do, what to say – would keep him safe.

Something twists and burns and _rages_ beneath his skin, but he pushes it _down, down, down_.

Until it's gone and his stomach is empty and everything is numb but at least the _thing_ is _gone_.

_Sick. Something's wrong. Can't stay here. Sick._

But one look at Kurt's clothes and he knows he's not leaving anytime soon. If the monsters want him, then they'll come. All he wants right now is the false sense of security that wraps around him like a blanket every time he sees those eyes.

_Just for now. Until they come. Then, I'll just run._

The tears don't stop, even as he shucks Finn's too-big clothes and slips into the stale-scented skinny jeans of Kurt's. At least he feels more like himself. Kurt's clothes are more his style, if not just a bit over the top. They fit snugly, but he still has to roll his shirt sleeves and pant legs.

Now, all he needs is some hair gel.

Maybe then he'll feel a little better.

* * *

When Blaine opens the door, he comes face-to-face with the taller, broader, longer-haired Winchester. He jerks back in surprise but corrects himself and smiles politely. "Sam?"

The man looks apologetic as he nods. "If you have time, I have some questions…"

For a brief moment, Blaine wonders if his inner turmoil is scrawled that noticeably across his features, because the look on Sam's face is that of absolute _guilt_.

He tries to smile again, but he's pretty sure it only makes things worse. "Sure, no problem."

* * *

Kurt sits back with a quiet sigh. He casts Finn's dirty dishes an annoyed glance. "Only you, Finn. Only you."

It's when he finally decides to go check on Blaine that Dean strolls in, that sad but somewhat familiar air of agitation still following him like a lonely cloud. Now, though, he seems considerably angrier, and his mood only darkens upon seeing Kurt.

"Morning to you, too," Kurt huffs. "Long night?"

Dean grabs hungrily at the remaining bacon while glaring at him. "If it weren't for Sam being so hell-bent on helping you out, we'd be long gone by now."

Kurt's eyes narrow. "I _really_ wish I knew what I did to make you so upset. Not that I really care, but, I mean, we hardly even _know_ each other."

Something flashes across the green of Dean's eyes, but Kurt's not quick enough to catch it.

When the older hunter doesn't answer, he runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. "You were supposed to help, not make things…"

"You asked if we knew an angel."

For a moment, Kurt doesn't know what he's talking about. When it hits him, though, he realizes that he's pushed the prophecy as far from his mind as physically possible. Instead, he's been focused on his family, the Winchesters, and _Blaine_.

He rests his elbows on the table and rubs at his tired eyes. His head still throbs relentlessly. "So?"

"Well, we do. Or_ did_, anyway." A crooked, bitter smile warps his handsome features. "Knew a lot, actually."

Fear prickles uneasily across Kurt's skin at what this could mean. "Do you think – "

"No. The only one that mattered's been dead for a while, now. Whatever crap those witches were spitting has nothing to do with him or any of the other angels we knew. Most of them are dead."

"Then why _tell _me?"

Dean sighs. "You're a good kid, Kurt. I like you, but I'm not here to talk about angels, and I don't plan to stick around long enough to meet one. Cas was the last straw."

Before Kurt can questions anything, (_Cas again? who the hell is he?) _Burt walks in. He claps Dean on the back and smiles warmly at his son. "How ya feelin'?"

_Terrible._

"Never been better."


	7. Chapter 6

**AN: **(time for really long author's note!:P) okay, so, i told you i wasn't giving up on this story! rest assured, the entire thing IS written, and the entirety of it WILL get posted! my main problems with this stem simply from the fact that, since i don't have my own computer (_yet_), my time on the family one is limited to only a few hours a day, so i hand write almost ALL of my fics (yes, it gets tiring), and working up the energy to type them out after i've already written them can sometimes be quite a task:P plus, i've recently started work (which i hate, so don't worry, im being punished for not updating often), and, well, making money takes up QUITE A BIT OF MY FREE TIME. also, i have about a million projects going at the same time, and i always get SO distracted!

for some reason, my links aren't working on my author's page, but my writing tumblr is **colferllamaking **(where you can also find a link to my main blog), and that's where you'll find me almost 100% of the time, so PLEASE go there if you have any questions! i probably won't get to them if you ask them here, although i still encourage you to review;)

**Warnings: **kind of for language a little teeny bit

* * *

**Safe With Me**

**Chapter Six**

After Blaine's miniature interrogation with Sam, Carole is at his side and smiling that same sweet, motherly smile that she first greeted him with the night before. There's worry in her eyes – maybe even a little sadness – but he's too busy digesting new information to really notice.

_A prophecy…_

She sets a small kit down on the coffee table and unlatches it to reveal an array of small jars and tubes. "You'll have to take your shirt off so I can redress the wounds," she says.

He nods but doesn't say anything. Quickly, he discards the cardigan and t-shirt he'd burrowed from Kurt, almost happy not to have the smell rampaging his senses. It's pleasant, sure, but in a way that makes him feel more guilty than anything.

_Kurt._

"_No one knows anything for sure, but there's…there's always the possibility that you're a part of this."_

Carole motions to his bandages. He nods obediently before reaching behind him to remove them.

"_You don't have to leave, if that's what you're worried about. It's better that you stay away from the people you love. Keep them safe."_

"_But…__**Kurt**__."_

"_We're going to find a way to stop this, Blaine. We are."_

The second the bandages are unwrapped and pooled around his waist, Carole jerks back with a terrified gasp that she tries vainly to cover. "Oh, d-dear you…"

His eyes widen in confused surprise as he angles his head to examine his marred chest.

Only to find flawless planes of unmarked skin. "How does that even…Why is it…"

Carole reaches for his hand. "Burt!" she calls. "Kurt! Sam! _Dean_!" She squeezes his hand and reaches forward to wipe the tears he hadn't even realized he was crying. "Oh, sweetheart." His body slumps over, but she catches him and lets his head rest against her shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll figure this out."

And he wishes he could believe her.

* * *

As soon as Kurt sees Blaine, he's rushing to his side and looking to Carole for an explanation.

His father runs in with Sam and Dean only a few steps behind. "What's happening?"

In response, Carole inhales, grabs Blaine by the shoulders, nods at him, and turns his body so that his bare chest is clearly visible. His cheeks are a vivid scarlet while Carole motions wordlessly to his wound-free skin. "Not even a_ scar_."

Burt's eyes widen in surprise while the two brothers manage to smooth over their own shock for the sake of not scaring the poor kid. Kurt can only freeze while his eyes remain locked on the same perfect patch of skin that he vaguely recalls was terribly scathed just last night.

"That's it," Dean grumbles suddenly. "We're calling Bobby."

Burt nods his head in agreement. "Good idea."

Blaine's body shakes in Carole's arms, and Kurt wishes he could so _something_ to make it better.

But he was never very good at comforting people.

* * *

"I'm telling you man, they'll help!"

"Noah, you're being _stupid_."

"Kurt, you're being stubborn."

"I'm not bringing them around Blaine! He's…fragile right now. Santana will break him!"

"Now you're just being overprotective."

"She's_ Satan_."

"Oh, don't even. She's your friend."

"But Blaine…"

"Can handle her."

"_Noah_."

"If you called me Puck more often I'd probably like you better."

"Seriously, Noah."

"I am being serious. I'm hanging up now. Be there in an hour – with Santana and Brit."

Kurt goes to protest, but he's met by a soft 'click' as Puck disconnects. Frustrated, he slams the phone down on the table and shakes his head. "_Damn _it."

* * *

Blaine doesn't say much the remainder of the afternoon.

When he needs to, he nods and smiles and waves away everyone's worry, because even though he knows that something's terribly wrong – can feel it in his bones – his faith in these people keeps him grounded.

Especially Kurt.

Kurt, who never gets too close but who always smiles reassuringly and fights back whenever Dean recommends just "throwing the kid back to his parents and calling it a day." Seeing Kurt argue for his sake makes him feel a little better about the whole situation.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't see the way Carole, Burt, and Finn _watch_ Kurt. Like something may very well just burst through the front door and drain his life at any possible moment. Even the Winchesters watch the boy with sad, cautious eyes.

Like every breath Kurt breathes could be his last.

It's somewhere around four o'clock when the front door bursts open and in walks a boy Blaine recognizes from back at the farmhouse, followed by two very pretty girls.

Before Blaine can call for someone, Kurt comes stomping from the kitchen, fists balled and face contorted in anger. His frustration is palpable and, unused to such a pretty face so aggravated, Blaine finds himself shying away – curling into a ball and staring at the carpet. Dean comes out a few steps behind, casing Blaine a quick glance before turning back to face Kurt and the new arrivals.

"_First _off," Kurt snarls, and his voice is chipped ice wearing thin. "You're late. _Second_ off, I told you not to _bring_ them, Noah!"

Blaine expects the other boy to be cowering in fear, but instead, there's a _smile_ creeping slowly across his features.

The blond girl standing beside him frowns. "Aren't you happy to see us, Kurt?" She reaches behind her head to twirl the curl of her ponytail around her pointer finger.

Sighing as if to dissipate his frustration, Kurt rubs tiredly at his temples. Blaine finds himself tracing the movement, taking notice of the muscles that strain and shift beneath the other boy's sweater. "Of course Brit, but…"

Pleased enough with his answer not to listen to the rest, she smiles giddily before locking eyes with Blaine who, in turn, sinks back deeper into the couch. She cocks her head to right, still smiling as she walks towards him.

She reaches her hand out for him to take. His palms are sweaty, but she doesn't seem to care. "I'm Brittany Pierce, and you're…" Her eyes narrow a bit. "Blaine Anderson! It's nice to meet you, Blaine Anderson."

He smiles politely despite his confusion. "Nice to meet you too, Brittany Pierce. But, uh, how did you…?"

Before he can finish his question, she taps a long finger to her temple and says, "Psychic."

"Oh," he says with a nod, unsurprised by her response. (He misses the times when it _would_ have surprised him.)

She points to the other girl, and he finds himself facing a set of cold brown eyes. "That's Santana Lopez! She's my _girlfriend_." Although it's a bit of a shock, to hear those words spoken so casually when he's become so used to keeping quiet about such things, the look on Brittany's face is just too precious. It melts his heart to the point where all he can do is smile goofily back at her. "We're here to help you."

Santana steps forward, crossing her arms across her chest and flashing a strained smile. "Puckerman told us you're in trouble. With _witches_."

He nods slowly. "Y-yah, uhm…"

"Demons, too?"

He takes a deep breath. "Yes."

She clucks her tongue in thought. "I won't lie to you, Anderson. You're a dead man."

Kurt cuts in front of her while Blaine's jaw falls slack in horror. "Santana! He doesn't need this right now – "

"Look, lady lips, I'm only being honest. My _sisters_ are bad enough, let alone demons. If they want him, they'll have him."

"They're not your sisters, Sannie," Brittany interjects quickly. "You're nothing like them." She turns to Blaine, grabs his hand, and leans in close. "Santana's a witch."

"Wha…she…"

"Don't worry," Santana cuts in, leaning around Kurt to look at him. "I'm the good kind."

This time, Dean steps in, eyeing them all a bit impatiently. "Kurt, care to explain what's happening?"

Kurt rolls his eyes and shakes his head slightly. "Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, friends from glee club – "

"_Glee _club? Seriously, kid?"

Kurt shoots him a hard glare. "Not right now, okay? Make fun of me later. Anyway, Brit's a physic and Santana's a witch, _technically_ the good kind. Noah thought bringing them here would help, but _clearly_…"

"Hey!" Puck chimes.

"Of course we'll help," Brittany sings innocently. "I like Blaine. I want him to be happy."

The room grows quiet.

"He deserves to be happy."

* * *

Kurt excuses himself to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Carole notices his agitation but does nothing more than rub his back soothingly before returning to the preparation of dinner. His father, Sam, and Finn are skimming through a few old texts, searching tirelessly for whatever they can find on either prophecies or wounds that heal completely overnight.

So far, they've found nothing.

His eyes burn as he knocks back a glass of water and goes to pour himself a new one.

A tap on his shoulder causes him to jump and drop the glass in the sink. When he spins around to come face-to-face with Brittany, he places a hand over his heart and lets out a shaky sigh. "You scared me, Brit."

She smiles bashfully at Carole before apologizing quietly. "Kurt, can we talk somewhere private? I have something super important to tell you."

Grinning despite himself, because she really is sweet, Kurt nods and pushes away from the counter. "Sure. Hallway?"

Together, they head for the hallway, catching the heated argument taking place between Santana and Dean but paying it no attention.

"She means well," Brittany explains. "Sannie, I mean. She's just scared for him. For you, too."

Frowning, Kurt leans heavily against the wall. "You guys can't stay, you know. He doesn't need…"

"He's short," she says smoothly. "I like that about him. He's different – like me. Like you. He can sing, too. You'll end up being really good friends."

"Brittany…"

"Santana and I went through the same thing. We didn't understand it at first. Me more than her I guess, but we got it eventually."

Remembering that sometimes Brittany's prophecies scatter her thoughts, Kurt patiently says "Slow down, Brit. What are you talking about?"

"We're not leaving. We're gonna help, but he needs_ you_ to take care of him."

Kurt groans quietly before sliding down the wall until he's curled up on the floor. "Is Blaine the boy from the prophecy? Do…do you know?"

Scrunching up her nose, Brittany crouches down to face Kurt, closes her eyes, and shakes her head sadly. "I don't know, Kurt. But don't jump to any conclusions, okay? We're unicorns, remember? Unicorns don't jump to conclusions, and they definitely don't give up."

Despite himself, Kurt throws his head back in laughter. School had seemed a million miles away, and the fact that he's supposed to go back tomorrow brings him that much closer to the crushing weight of reality.

Unless they figure this thing out, he's a dead man walking.

* * *

Dean shakes his head. "No, no, _no._ If Kurt doesn't want you around, you're leaving."

The witch shakes her head in disbelief. "I know what I'm doing, handsome. And I'm not going _anywhere_."

"The kid doesn't need you around, telling him he's _dead_."

"It's the truth, though, isn't it? There's a prize for whoever gets to him first."

Blaine's sharp intake of breath on the couch strikes a nerve, and Dean has to squeeze his hands into tight fists to keep from socking this bitch in the mouth. "Tell me what you know."

For a moment, she seems almost sad. Her eyes move to the hallway before she says softly "Get everyone out here. If we're all gonna work together on this, I need you all to hear."

* * *

Santana stands in the center of the room, arms folded, while everyone settles in around her. Brittany and Carole sit on either side of Blaine, both grabbing for his hands. Burt and Finn stand stolidly beside the Winchesters, faces void of any emotion. Kurt and Puck sit a few inches apart on the other couch.

She sighs and lets her arms drop. "The prophecy's been around for a few years now," she starts. "The Winchesters come, a boy dies, and an angel brings the light. Personally, I didn't believe it. The witches around here are sketchy and tend to lie in the hopes of getting me to switch teams.

"They droned on and on about star-crossed destinies and demon blood. And death. They wouldn't stop talking about the _death_."

Blaine bows his head and closes his eyes. "Am I…"

"Don't know. Back then, there weren't any names. I won't say it's not suspicious, though. Demons don't waste time chasing around little people for fun, hobbit."

"Santana," Puck warns.

Her only acknowledgement is a quick eyeroll. "Look, whether you like it or not, Brit and I are here to help. I'm not gonna pat your backs and tell you it's all alright, because it's probably not, but we'll do what we can. I'd love to pull one over on the creeps who are constantly cornering me in _alleyways_, trying to _convert_ me. They'll kill me if I don't kill them, first."

The room goes silent as tension and fear mix in the air to form a lapping, draining current that mixes through their blood. They bow their heads and clench their fists and wish they were anywhere but here – that this had happened to anyone but them.

Carole takes a deep breath as if to steady herself. "Is there still…Can we still _stop _this?"

"It's not impossible," Santana answers quietly.

"Yah, but has it been done before?" Burt grinds out.

"My mom has a whole bunch of old books if you need proof."

Across the room, Kurt leans back against the couch cushions. The conversation swirls around him – plans to pull him from school, to keep Blaine hidden, to track down the witches, to save him – but it all blows straight past him.

His eyes land on Blaine, whose face is a mess of fear and guilt. He wonders if he looks the same. They do, after all, share the same worries.

But Blaine doesn't need to be guilty. As far as any of them know, he has nothing to do with this.

But Kurt…

Kurt might not have a way out of this thing.


End file.
